


Brutality and Broken Bones (Stiles Just Cannot Catch A Break).

by HomieG



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Demon Stiles Stilinski, Exorcisms, First Kiss, Gen, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomieG/pseuds/HomieG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s pretty sure that this whole grave robbery deal is just the werewolves stirring up trouble to piss off the local Alpha, and to be honest, it’s not like they’ve got it tough. Derek is like, permanently pissy. <br/>But Stiles guesses it’s kind of justified, what with the whole barbequed family side of things.<br/>Anyhow.</p><p>“The Beacon Hills pack has been a pack at war for a long time now. We’re a pack that’s prepared for anything-including an unjustified werewolf invasion.” Stiles grins, baring his teeth as he sees her discomfort grow.<br/>“It’s not simply an invasion,“she growls, “If we have a bargaining chip.”<br/>She hurls herself at him in a flurry of fangs and claws, and Stiles begins to laugh.</p><p>*** </p><p>In which Stiles tries to be a BAMF, is kidnapped and subsequently rescued, possessed by a demon, exorcised, kissed by the hottest werewolf in town, and spooned. Oh, and the Sheriff finds out about werewolves.</p><p>Yeah. Not great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fic. It's not fab by any means, but reviews and feedback are appreciated! NOT BETA READ.  
> x

Stiles blinks at his computer screen for a moment, gaping, before he leaps into action. Snatching his phone from next to the keyboard, he hits speed dial and presses it between his shoulder and ear, listening to the ringing as he whirls around his room. He tugs on his hoodie and scoops up his keys and wallet, muttering impatiently.

  
“Come on, Derek. Come on! Pick up the damn phone for once in your stupid werewolf life!”

  
He grabs the back of his desk chair for balance as he shoves his feet into his beat up converse, still filthy from his last life threatening dash through the woods, until a voice growls in his ear. Of course, it’s Derek’s voicemail. When does Derek ever pick up his phone? Stupid Derek and his stupid abs and his stupid hair. He’s so stupid.

“Derek, man, I got something, I found something! Pick up your goddamn phone, or text me or something, and I’ll tell you where to meet me.”

  
Stiles tosses back two Adderall, grasps his trusty lacrosse stick, and rushes down the stairs in a tangle of flailing limbs. He pauses at the kitchen table to write a threatening letter about healthy foods to his dad, and then stumbles out the door in the direction of the jeep, still talking a mile a minute.

  
“The animal corpses, the grave robberies, the missing kids, just _everything!_ I’ve got it, Derek! I think it’s a rival pack; it’s the only thing that makes sense! Look, I can’t explain it all in a message, call me when you can and I’ll tell you where I am.”

Tossing his phone onto the passenger seat beside him, Stiles slams the door shut and clicks on his seatbelt. Hey, even with the imminent threat of death and destruction from a rival pack, he’s still the Sheriff’s son. Road safety and all that.

  
He takes a deep breath before pulling out of the driveway and taking off in the direction of the graveyard. He hasn’t really got a plan, but they’ve been at a dead end for months on this particular round of supernatural occurrences, and he’s kind of sick of it. Now that he knows what he’s up against, he’d just like to get the inevitable confrontation out of the way. He’s not really scared, now that he knows it’s werewolves. He can take them. He’s got the rest of his pack on a leash, for god’s sake- not to mention a reputation to uphold for being the fearless human of the Beacon Hills pack.

Stiles drums his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel as he pulls into the cemetery car park. He’s not sure what to expect, but he’s more than confident in his own badassery. But it would have been cool if Derek had responded. You know, backup and all that. That would have been nice.

  
Sighing, he hauls the lacrosse stick over his shoulder, slips his phone into his back pocket, and slides out of the car. He squints as his eyes adjust to the dark, and heads towards the most recently decimated grave. He’s pretty sure that this whole grave robbery deal is just the werewolves stirring up trouble to piss off the local Alpha, and to be honest, it’s not like they’ve got it tough.

Derek is like, permanently pissy. But Stiles guesses it’s kind of justified, what with the whole barbequed family side of things.

  
Anyhow.

*

He’s whistling tunelessly when he hears it. There’s a low and constant growling emanating from the shadows beside the nearest gravestone, and Stiles pauses.

  
“Hey, Fido. Don’t be shy,” he says cheerily.

  
The growling intensifies, and a woman with shoulder length brown hair, golden beta eyes, and kind of intimidating claws steps out of the darkness.

  
“Where’s your Alpha?” Stiles snaps, eyes suddenly icy. He can handle an overcompensating beta. Hell, his best friend is an overcompensating beta.  
  
“My Alpha is none of your business,” snarls the woman, eyes glinting wildly.

  
“Your Alpha, and your pack for that matter, is trespassing on Hale territory. On the territory of the Beacon Hills pack,” Stiles responds, planting his lacrosse stick in the ground, and leaning on it casually.

  
“You think we don’t know that?” The beta laughs humourlessly. “That was our intention.”

  
“Judging by our exchange so far, you guys didn’t do much research on the Beacon Hills pack. Rather, the humans of the Beacon Hills pack.” Stiles shifts his weight, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

  
“Why would we need to? Everyone knows Beacon Hills hasn’t fought in years. Means you’re underprepared. Underpracticed… Easy pickings.”

  
“That may have been the case before the Hale fire,” Stiles concedes, “Now, though, it’s a different story. The Beacon Hills pack has been a pack at war for a long time now. We’re a pack that’s prepared for anything-including an unjustified werewolf invasion.”

  
Stiles grins, baring his teeth as he sees her discomfort grow.

  
“It’s not simply an _invasion_ ,“she growls, “If we have a bargaining chip.”  
  
She hurls herself at him in a flurry of fangs and claws, and Stiles begins to laugh.

*

He flips his lacrosse stick up into the air with reflexes that could only have been learned through years of mortal peril, catches it by the handle and swings in one fluid motion. With a solid crack, it connects with the beta’s face, and there is a sick crunch of bone as her nose splinters on impact. He feels the blood splatter on his face, but there’s no time to do anything but flick the stick into a defensive position to stop her enraged advances. She rakes her claws down his side, and although Stiles winces, he doesn’t falter. He brings the stick down with two hands to shatter her skull, but ends up snapping her arm instead when she moves at the last moment.

  
He knows that things have gotten bad over the past few years, because now the sick crunch and snap of bone brings satisfaction rather than disgust.

They fall into a pattern, with him evading her bloodied claws while breaking what bones he can, and her furiously attacking him and healing her wounds at inhuman speed. It’s so imbalanced it’s not even fair.

Vaguely, Stiles notices that his phone still hasn’t gone off in his back pocket.  
  
 _Sweet backup,_ he thinks darkly in the general telepathic direction of the pack. _Real nice._

Despite the obvious inequalities of the fight, Stiles is still confident in his abilities. He’s got a badass lacrosse stick, and unconquerable wit, so he thinks he’s pretty set. That is, until the scales tip a little more- and not in his favour.

Just as he’s preparing a brutal uppercut and an accompanying sarcastic remark, he’s pushed to the ground under a sudden weight. Winded, he rolls into a crouch, and glares at the source of the problem.

  
Another beta, a blond haired man, snaps his teeth and glares right back, from where he had fallen after landing on Stiles’ back.  
Stiles sighs. This fight is so increasingly unfair.

Both betas leer at him, the girls lips pulled back as she growls delightedly.

  
“Checkmate, human," she pronounces victoriously, "Check. Mate.”

  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Stiles replies, like the genius that he is. He knows when he’s beaten- or rather, knows when it’s best to wait it out and then fight like hell. “Come get me.”

  
He spreads his arms wide and beckons, tilting his head tauntingly even as he surrenders.

The betas are on him in a second, howling and snarling triumphantly, and in the moment before his own lacrosse stick collides with his head, enveloping him in a curtain of darkness, he thinks, _For god’s sake Derek, is it that hard to answer your fucking phone?_


	2. Chapter Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS; PANIC ATTACKS, VIOLENCE.

A constant- and really annoying- tapping noise sends pulses of pain through Stiles’ aching head, and he cracks one eyelid open to investigate before scrunching his face up against the piercing light. As he slowly squints through his lashes, he identifies the sound as a pair of stiletto heels moving ever closer.

A pair of stiletto heels attached to a pair of long toned legs, and although Stiles refuses to move to investigate further, he assumes that all that eventually leads to a torso and a head of some kind. He also assumes that the heels belong to a woman, but he won’t make any bets because his assumptions have been astonishingly wrong before.

  
The shoes come to rest directly in front of his face, and he sighs in relief as the noise ceases. This relief doesn’t last long though, because- obviously- the next move of the heels is to drive the steel tipped stiletto through the back of his hand where it rests weakly on the cement floor. Stiles jerks reflexively and shrieks manfully as the movement tears through muscle and sinew, shifting the bones in his palm.

He throws his head back to glare reprovingly at the owner of the shoes, and finally sees their face.It is a woman- score one for his instincts- and she doesn’t look overly pleased if the expression on her face (and the shoe through his hand) is anything to go by. Stiles whimpers softly at the pain before composing himself with a deep breath, pushing the pain to a far part of his consciousness where it won’t affect him  
  
“Hi,” he says, because he has to start somewhere.

  
The woman growls, but Stiles doesn’t think she’s a werewolf. Psychopath, definitely. Werewolf... maybe not. “You will speak when you are spoken to,” she hisses. Very friendly.

  
“Look,” Stiles pushes, “Can you just tell me what’s going on? I have a right to be charged or something.” His dad would be so proud at such an extensive display of his knowledge of the law.

  
“I’ll tell you what’s going on!” shrieks the woman, “I’ll tell you-“

  
“- that would be useful, “interjects Stiles helpfully.

  
“- Derek Hale is what’s going on,” she spits, his name like poison on her tongue. ”Derek Hale and his stupid pack caused the death of my friend, and I intend to bring them to justice! I organised some rogue wolves to commit atrocities in the area, the grave robberies and such, in order to lure them to me. Instead, I got you.”

  
A hunter then, Stiles concludes. “Look, tell me the name of your friend and I can tell you if they were involved, I’m sure they didn’t kill your friend. They’re pretty nice, you know, for a bunch of werewolves,” Stiles bargains weakly.

  
“Kate Argent,” growls the hunter, her face tinged with grief. Stiles tenses. God damn.

  
“They may have, uh.. They may have been a teensy bit involved in that one...” he says, voice tentative.

  
She screams in fury, and whacks him over the head.  
 _These head injuries are getting kind of old,_ he thinks seriously- before he passes out.

*

“Wake up, Little Red,” Stiles hears faintly, his head still foggy from a combination of unconsciousness and head trauma. He shivers at the name, cold fingers tracing up his spine, and slumps back into his daze.

  
“The boy who runs with wolves… it’s time to shine,” the voice comes again, and Stiles feels his fear overcome the black oblivion as he blinks into wakefulness.

  
“Welcome back, Little Red. While you were… sleeping…, I did a little thinking to myself. You’ve wormed your way into the hearts of monsters, and it’s time to pay the price. You will lure them here, and I will have my vengeance!” It’s the woman from before, and her face is lit with fanatical insanity as she drones on like every criminal mastermind Stiles has ever seen.

  
“I won’t,” Stiles croaks, “I won’t hurt them. Hurt me instead.”

  
“Oh, don’t worry,” she coos, “I intend to.”

  
She lurches forward and digs a thumb into the hole in his hand, pulling it wider and making him scream at the sudden wave of overbearing pain. She pulls back and grins, pushing her hair from her eyes and leaving smears of Stiles blood across her forehead. Her manic smile is somehow more feral than that of the rogue wolves.

  
Stiles pulls his hand to his chest, cradling it gently as he glares up at her. She cackles happily and kicks in his ribs. He feels them crack and cave, and slumps to the side with a howl. Reluctant tears slip from behind his eyelids as Stiles retreats into his mind, away from the excruciating torment of the present. He stays barricaded in a mental fort as the hunter continues her gleeful ministrations.

  
A twist to his wrist and his arm snaps, bending grotesquely. A quick tug and his knee pops out of alignment. A sharp jab and his nose crunches, blood pouring into his mouth as both his eyes swell and blacken.

“This will bring them running,” he hears her crow, “They will run as your blood flows, Little Red.”

  
Stiles curls into a ball, and stays there as she ruins him.

*

As he slumps on the floor at the mercy of a psychopathic _human_ , no less, Stiles thinks.

He thinks about how if any of the others in the pack found themselves in a position such as this, they would hold their own. How they would refuse to be used as bait, refuse to lure the others into harms way, and yet here Stiles is, cowering in the fetal position as he is methodically destroyed. Useless.

  
Derek, with his almost unreasonable sense of goodness, his desperation to right the wrongs of the past with the furious protection of those he loves, would never allow himself to be used to hurt those very people.

And Scott, with his ingrained kindness, his limitless love for others and his need to help all those in need, would never allow himself to be corrupted like this.

Even Allison, human and occasionally crazy like she is, would never permit her flaws to be employed against the few to which she is loyal. She would fight, and she would win.

  
Every member of the pack, of Stiles family, would die rather than take part in their friends’ demise- Boyd with his quiet and unshakeable allegiance, and Erica with her furious and unswerving dependability, her ferocious defence of everything she loves. Isaac with his timid demeanour, transforming into ground-shaking fury when his family is threatened. Lydia with her indisputable knowledge of everything they could ever need to know, and her delicate way of effectively disposing of any problem that stands in her way. Even Jackson with his proud and snarky defence of his pack.   
  
And yet here Stiles is. He doesn’t even compare, doesn’t deserve the love that they give him. He feels his chest tightening as remorse and self-loathing overwhelms him, as he internally prays for the safety of his friends. He struggles to draw breath, and when he finds that he can’t, he discovers that he doesn’t even care. After what he’s done, he doesn’t deserve to live. He’s finally getting what he deserves.

His vision swims and clouds, and he only vaguely notices as the beating ceases. He’s losing feeling- can’t see or hear as he surrenders to the darkness. Then he’s slapped across the face.

  
 _Seriously,_ these head injuries are getting old fast.

*

Stiles eyes flicker open. Another slap, harsh across his raw skin as it combines with the previous blows. He draws a stuttering breath, shocked by the intensity of the pain that radiates across his entire being as he is pulled back to reality.

  
“Stiles,” a voice says, roughly. “Stiles, breathe for gods sake.”

  
Another slap, another breath. This time he pushes the air back out, pulls it back in, and repeats, relearning the process, like learning to ride a bike without training wheels, except a little more life threatening. Then warm arms close around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The pain spikes as his broken bones grate against each other and the blood slips and slides across his skin, and he struggles weakly, crying out in fear and agony.

  
“No, no! You can’t hurt them!” he protests, “They won’t come for me, you’ll see! Please, leave them be. Stop, please!”

  
The arms holding him loosen automatically, and he hears breath being sucked in- a horrified gasp.

  
“Little Red!” he hears from across the room and he flails desperately until the arms are back, pinning him down, holding him still.

  
“Stiles! Look at me!” the voice orders as the taunting cries are abruptly cut off. “Stiles!”

  
Stiles forces his eyes to focus, fighting back frantic tears, before his vision clears and he takes in the scene.

*

Derek is kneeling in front of him, loosely grasping his shoulder as he watches Stiles with heartbreaking anxiety and caution.

Stiles breathing slows, and Derek lets out a relieved breath.  Stiles looks beyond him, recognising Scott and Alison in the corner tending to each other, Lydia and Jackson locked in an embrace. He sees Isaac, Boyd, and Erica hunched over an unmoving figure, caging it in. It’s the hunter, Stiles realises. They’ve eliminated the threat.

  
However, while all the pack are engaged in their own activities, -giving Derek the space to deal with him, he guesses- they are all watching him in their peripheries with undisguised concern. They think he’s family. They don’t know what he did.

  
Stiles lets out a choked sob and nods slowly, allows Derek to lift him carefully from the ground, his cries stuttering as the pain crashes over him with every movement.

  
“You could’ve answered your phone,” he jokes half-heartedly, but it falls flat when he looks at Derek’s face and sees his guilt.

  
Stiles nods at each of the pack, brushes his hand weakly against Scott’s as he passes, feebly reassuring them of his wellbeing and accepting their anxious smiles in return, the smiles that mask their horrified concern. He doesn’t want them to waste energy worrying about him.

*

It’s only as the pass through the door that Stiles lets out a weak noise.

By the door stands his father, his eyes ancient and sad as he watches his only son pass in a bundle of blood and broken bones.

  
Stiles makes eye contact, trying to convey his regret, and his love even as he passes into darkness once again.


	3. Chapter 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the massive hiatus, but I'm back! Not the longest chapter, but I'm just getting back into the swing of things.

Stiles opens his eyes.

Stiles flinches.

Stiles closes his eyes again, because everything is white and painful, and he likes to live in denial. When he finally re-opens his eyes, the blinding lights above him are blocked out by the blurry outline of a human torso.

Stiles blinks several more times in an attempt to clear his vision, and is rewarded with the sight of Derek looming over his bed. The lights behind him frame his face, and almost look like a halo. Stiles begins to giggle, and watches as Derek's forehead creases in confusion. He reaches up to smooth away the lines, and immediately shrieks. It feels like his muscles are shredding themselves, and his bones are grating together inside him.

Derek frowns. "Sit still."

"You know I can't do that," Stiles protests weakly.

"Sit still," Derek repeats, and Stiles refuses to fight after what he has put Derek through. He lies still on the bed, and stares at the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," he rasps, "I'm so sorry. She was trying to lure you there, and it worked. I couldn't warn you. I couldn't stop her. I couldn't do anything. I felt so useless, I was just lying there, and she just kept hitting and hitting and hitting, I'm so sorry-"

"Stiles," Derek says sharply interrupting the tirade of self-hatred, "There's nothing you could have done. We would have come for you- trap or not. We will always come for you. Sleep."

Stiles pauses, and feels some of the tension leave his shoulders. He sinks further into his pillows, the corners of his mouth lifting upwards.

"Thank you, Derek. For everything."

***

Stiles opens his eyes.

Stiles flinches.

Stiles closes his eyes again, because everything is cloudy and blurred. He feels as if he is wearing dirty contact lenses, but he can’t be bothered to raise his hand to investigate the problem.

He turns his head to the side, wincing, and looks at the chair next to him, where Derek is slumped and sleeping. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words get stuck in his throat. His breathing quickens as he begins to panic. He tries to lift his hand from the sheets, but no matter how hard he focusses, he can't get it to move.

"I've got you now," a voice sings mockingly, and Stiles realises that it came from his own mouth. He jerks upright in confusion.

"I've got you now, little wolf boy. I've got you at my mercy, and I will worm my way into the very heart of this pack, and I will bring you all to your knees. I will crush you all."

The lilting tone is that of the crazy huntress. Stiles recognises the voice instantly, and shudders internally as he suddenly understands. She has possessed him. She is controlling him. She owns him.

Stiles still can't see properly, can't move properly, can't speak his own mind. He is once again helpless as his pack is threatened- this time, by him.

***

Stiles opens his eyes.

Stiles flinches.

He can still feel the foreign presence within him, and he chokes on his tongue as he struggles to warn the pack that surrounds him. They have gathered while he slept, and he is encircled by their expressions of love and concern.

He sees his father amongst them- looking dazed and concerned- and his heart swells as he realises that his father now knows about the pack. Stiles feels as though a burden has been lifted, not that such deceit is no longer necessary. He always hated lying to his dad. He guessed it had something to do with the strong moral compass that accompanied being the only offspring of the local Sheriff.

However, the relief disappears just as swiftly, as cold tendrils of dread seize his heart. These people have gathered here to protect and support him, and he has returned the favour by getting himself possessed.

Why can’t he do anything right?

He feels the presence seize onto his momentary weakness, and push forward in his mind. Stiles finds that he has lost all control- he is a mere observer in his own mind. He feels the harshly air conditioned air of the hospital flood his lungs, and then the creature begins to chatter.  

“Guys! I’m okay, I’m seriously okay, there’s no need for you all to be here, and dad I'm so sorry i didn't tell you all of this sooner, i know i should have, and thank you all for saving me, but i’m seriously fine, you should all get back to whatever drama we’re dealing with now, i’m so sorry i got you all into all that trouble, and-“  

Stiles realises that the demon is trying to mimic him and his mindless babble, and he cringes. It’s actually doing a decent job.

It’s Derek that cuts him off. “Stiles, _you’re_ the drama that we’re dealing with now. We need you to focus on recovering instead of apologising to us every minute- you have nothing to apologise for.”

Demon-Stiles shrugs weakly in agreement, and Derek looks at him strangely. He had obviously expected more of a protest.

Hope flickers inside of Stiles as he realises that sooner or later, the demon is going to break character. He only hopes that the pack will notice that something’s not right- and it looks like Derek almost has.

He sends a quick prayer to the god of werewolves or whoever, and pleads that they all make it out of this alive.  


End file.
